~Subscripe to PornBurger~

This made me smile a lot. This is me according to a very awesome funky lady I happen to know. If only all personal references could be like this.

“I’ve known Da Rhiani since she was a foetus in the womb of her surrogate elephant. We always knew she would be tall. During her time on this planet she has only eaten five babies, but they all deserved it, so I still think she is worthy of a reference of gleaming shiny sparkle with chilli sauce. Da Rhiani likes cats and also has made friends with one dog therefore she is good with children, as she can skilfully use mice or sticks as incentives. I think she would be most support to a boy as she’s happy to talk about boobs and has a nice pair of her own.”

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In order to survive cycling London, I really, truly may as well become a cyber fag. No seriously, it makes sense.

For one, in order to not gag, wretch, constantly gob and want to vomit, you’ll need a gas mask. After cycling three miles and back, you find yourself unable to shut your mouth for the taste of ROADEATH wanting to come out your throat.

The Cyber bicycling: CYBLING

Next, there is the problem of visibility. A front and back light is not enough. In order for all the other bastards on the road and streets to see you, let alone pay any attention you need to cover yourself, your bike, your helmet and bag in flashing LED’s.

Then there is the problem of the colour of your clothing. Fluorescent yellow and toxic lime green clothes would suit this perfectly, combined with everything reflective. Unless said other drivers are colourblind, then there may be a problem.

May as well go all out and buy some cyber/moon/padded hotpants from cyberdog too – bike saddles and potholes are not kind to your ass.

Also invest in some energy. If you aren’t as fast as the mopeds and taxis, you get pushed out of the little space you have to squeeze between buses threatening to knock you off and small angry men with fast cars who are too impatiently shouting into their phones to pay enough attention to other people on the road.

Like this:

Very early evening. With the lovely toasty end-of-the-afternoon sun. A balcony 20-30 ft’ from the ground. There is a giant bean bag, rum cocktails, shisha, books. All the books.

There are water bombs and paint-bombs for entertainments sake. Maple tree leaves about level with Iron railings that are just wide enough to squeeze through onto the outside of the balconies overhang, where ropes hang down for ninjascapes. Let’s add some Ikea or Moroccan cushions and poufs to the balcony too.

Remove the ‘L’ from ‘balconies’ and you get a ‘Baconie’.

A Bacon Balcony. Or a Bacony. Would the bacony cook under the sun if it were to be scorchingly hot enough? (lets say just the railings are bacon, for now) Could you cook your balcony; relax, read, chat, ninja, discuss, sleep and exist on a baconie?

The dire circumstances of the civil war years continually pressed against the hope for a better world. Conditions were worst in Petrograd, where a daily struggle to to survive sapped much of the élan of the revolution. The writer Yevgengg Zamiatin described Petrograd as ‘an ice kingdom – its population were ‘cavemen, wrapped in hides, blankets, rags‘ retreating ‘from cave to cave’ and moving ‘deeper and deeper… here they must last out the seige or die’

The memiors of another writer, Ilia Ehrenburg, capture some of the tensions and horrors produced by the civil war. Ehrenburg initially fled the revolution, but late in the civil war he came back. Already of some prominence, he was sent to work in Moscow Childrens Theatre where Durov, the great clown and animal trainer of the age, wanted to show children how things could change. One of the shows was Hares of all lands, Unite! Hares where the traditional cowards of Russian folklore, but in this became heroes, leading their own revolution, firing guns and storming the palace to victory. The children ‘pale and thin’ from hunger, could glimpse for a moment a different and better world. They could also learn through the changed roles of the animals that even the weak could become strong.

But poverty, cold and hunger were never far away. Durov’s baby elephant died of the cold. The bear cub outgrew his clothes, for there were not even enough for the humans. When Ehrenburg arrive in Moscow he recalled that his trousers had disintegrated at the knees. But now with his new job, he could get a clothing coupon. ‘Comrade Ehrenburg must be clothed,’ said the note. But a note was one thing – finding clothes was another. Eventually he pushed his way to the head of a queue at one clothing depot. Because of the depth of the economic crisis in the civil war he had to choose between a winter coat and a suit: ‘The choice was very hard. Frozen as I felt, I was ready to ask for a winter coat, but suddenly I remembered the humiliations of the past months and shouted: Trousers! A Suit!’

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Midsummer naturally concludes a marker in time, a point when everything suddenly becomes clearer than mountain spring water and for a brief few minutes, your place in life suddenly seems to make sense.

For a few precious moments everything in life untangles, simplifies and becomes so sharply clear.

Don’t ask me where this clarity comes from. I have no idea. I don’t fully believe it truly is present, yet every year on this long summer day it reappears. There is no logical sense in believing that one day in the year conjures up this sense. Its kinetic and reflective, its something that’s present, sitting in a bit of floating brain-grisle.

Is this just an imagined belief? Am I just a hippy? Did dabbling in Paganistic ideas influence thoughts? Or is there actually something really in existence that we are aware of regardless of prior experience and knowledge.

The summer solstice is the day in the Northern hemisphere when the sun and the moon’s axis tilts towards the sun more so than any other day each year. It is the longest, lightest day of the year. This is an undisputible fact.

In our industrious artificial lives does this still effect us, are we even aware of this fraction more daylight received? Citydwellers – most of us are – are so removed from nature it’s hard to think such subtle changes still have the capability of effecting our feelings and knowledge. Perhaps it is purely an empirical understanding than cannot be shaken no matter how urbanised we are. Yet it is a day so deeply entwinned in natural light maybe it is unescapable to even those who live artificial lives.

Solstice

One year ago today I was half asleep in a tiny car.

After dawn we climbed trees and drank a bottleof Morgan’s Spiced rum, while Mike the viking tried to poke us out of a tree with a giant stick. More of a tree trunk than a stick, really. Wondering up the hill afterwards, we ate tomato pasta salad with our fingers and fell asleep in the dawn sun. Sometime after we wondered back to the car and fell asleep. This was all in the name of midsummer, the Solstice.

When it got too hot we sleepily stumbled out the car into the early morning sun, finding shade and Waynes van. Everything is somewhat blurry about this point. Several of us squeezed into the front seats, falling asleep squished into gangly shapes. The seats were not big enough to sleep on, let alone for two or three not-so-small people. Sometime later Joy’s shoes were thrown on the roof of the van. There was some tired drama and eventual shoe retrieval.

After this everything is a blur. Then suddenly we were home. I don’t remember anything other than falling asleep squashed between people in the back of the car and drinking red bull when my eyes cracked open.

Today

I am sat at a desk staring at a monitor wondering why I am feeling sad. Later on I will stand in an off-license pulling disgusted faces when people reeking of layers of dried sweat and stale alcohol stumble over the doorstep of the shop. And then Midsummers day will be over.

Like this:

Watching two girls and a guy drag themselves about on knee’s with cut tendons, faces sewn into assholes, is a bit messed up.

At least, it would be if the acting and goddamn plot was even remotely accurate or well-executed. This is a film that has attracted so much hype for its sheer horribleness and disturbance, the disgusting concept of making humans into a centipede and forcing all but the very front member of the ‘pede to continually eat faeces.

Two American Girlies on euro road trip. > Car gets a flat, poor helpless heeled girls run through the forest in search of help and walk into psychopathic surgeons house.

Creepy motherfucker/aids face/surgeon Dieter Laser, drugs the girls and locks them in his ‘research cellar’ with Japanese guy who at first appears to have balls, then ends it just before potential rescue by slowly slicing through his neck with broken glass.

Some poor escape attempts.

DISAPPOINTING SURGERY. Bad face-to-ass bandaging.

Some poor attempts at ‘teaching’ the now connected girls and Japanese guy by Dr Heiter (cane, domination attempts, dog bowls)

More of the above, some swimming.

Cops arrive, half get drugged, go, come back with search warrant, both die by scalpel to the neck and bullets (x2) to the bellyish area followed by accidental drowning.

Japanese guy/front of centipede selfishly hacks at own neck until death. Girl #2 dies of assumed poo ingestion/infection

Girl #1 is left alive, making distress noises with a dead girl sewn to her ass and her face sewn to the ringpiece of a dead Japanese guy. Nice

THE END.

THIS IS A VERY DISAPPOINTING FILM. Connecting three people together requires more than one surgeon and max 2mins of surgery. There is no recovery time. The girls cannot act. The Japanese guy throws in the towel after the cops arrive. The cops are a bit pathetic.